


Imminence

by notquitecandid



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Implied Relationships, Lack of Communication, Neglect, Order 66 (Star Wars), Post-Bio Chip Arc (Star Wars: The Clone Wars), Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 12:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30039021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquitecandid/pseuds/notquitecandid
Summary: It had just happened so fast. A series of events, on the precipice of completion; motion - change. Then, nothing.One moment, she had rallied their troops - his men leaping to follow tendrils of amber tipped with milky grass devotedly. Another moment, they charged side by side, joyous eyes casting his way fleetingly - accompanied by a sly smile; just for him. The next? The next moment there was but a glimpse of a chartreuse limb, fingers outstretched and hanging limp from the cradle of her sister’s arms.
Relationships: Doom & Tiplar (Star Wars), Tiplar & Tiplee (Star Wars)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Imminence

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a Tumblr ask.
> 
> Warnings: Angst with little comfort, one scene of involuntary self harm, despair and desperation, tragedy, implied relationships, order 66. 
> 
> Words: 2806

Imminence

_Month 4, 19BBY_

He’d ceased his pacing, finally slumping to his bunk, though the dim light still swayed back and forth from his past momentum with the harsh inquisitiveness of a pendulum. It flickered sporadically, adding to the pain behind his eyes; joined by the raised welts his nails carved along his jaw. 

Days, even weeks later, he’d still be pulling dried crusts of rust and copper from below his uneven nails. 

It had just happened so fast. A series of events, on the precipice of completion; motion - _change._ Then, nothing.

One moment, she had rallied their troops - his men leaping to follow tendrils of amber tipped with milky grass devotedly. Another moment, they charged side by side, joyous eyes casting his way fleetingly - accompanied by a sly smile; just for him. The next? The next moment there was but a glimpse of a chartreuse limb, fingers outstretched and hanging limp from the cradle of her sister’s arms. 

A trooper had been subdued, his General but not _his_ General; her sister became flame. Control long abandoned, her skin flushed fuchsia with fury and despair, sought out the traitor. He didn’t see his face, he didn’t care. All he could focus on was how heavy her head felt in his lap, a final embrace. 

The coils of silken stardust which once tickled his chest, animated even in her sleep, stilled. A flutter ignited hope, the shard piercing his heart until rationale shaped hold. The mistaken glimmer of life fading into memory; a mere prolonged act of momentum from his shaking legs - an inadequate resting place as she drifted into the _force_. 

_A Week._

The stubble she had adored was turning to coarse beard; the eyes she claimed to lose herself in were now sullen and permanently rimmed in red vessels; boyish, slicked hair she would run her fingers through started to hang in shaggy, greased strands. 

The trooper was dead; a virus - a tumour - something.

The Captain, Rex, promised - swore even he’d keep them updated. General Tiplee, the sister, didn’t speak of it; her own eyes dried with years of indoctrinated detachment and emptied of the memories. 

_A Day._

Another trooper was dead, an ARC, the one who had accompanied the rogue to Kamino, had been shot dead. He tried to kill the Chancellor. 

Infected. Defective. Bad Batcher. Mutated. 

That night, she was there. There was a caress; a whisper of breath like how her lips would ghost over his own. A flutter of eyelashes as she would rest her head against his chest; a scrape of blunt nails easing the itch over a hip, too long chafed against regulation blacks. All those feelings, all those gentle touches but, in the wrong place. Way above his temple, slightly higher than his right parietal and deep within the tissue of his brain. The actions persisted until the morning. 

_Month 6, 19BBY_

His comm chirped once. 

Rex. A report, heavily encrypted and likely equally redacted. 

_“I wish I knew more.”_ Was the accompanying message. 

[…confirmed that the clone trooper, CT-5555, experienced a malfunction of his inhibitor chip…]

[…grievance report filed…CT-7567…]

[…access denied]

[Access denied]

[Clearance Code Temporarily Locked]

_Another Week_

His bunk had never felt so stiff and his sleep, always turbulent now, was inaccessible due to the face that lay behind closed eyes yet beyond his reach. He’d receive his inoculation tomorrow; a gift from the Chancellor who benevolently wanted to see both the prevention of casualties and the discovery of dormant tumours. 

The soft touches returned but, burned with the intensity of ice rubbing salt crystals into tender skin. The once gentle caresses gouged behind his skull with desperate insistence, only fading with the dawn.

_Another Week_

[Access denied]

[Access denied]

[Clearance Code Temporarily Locked]

_Month 7, 19BBY_

The sister is dead. General Tiplee had been severed by Count Dooku’s crimson sabre weeks before he would kidnap the Chancellor. He had barely acknowledged it, even as some of his men; his _brothers_ wept. 

He couldn’t go there again, it was like watching _her_ fall again. Instead of fire and flares of fuchsia tinted with copper; it was golden flecked blades of grass which faded with life’s rapidly vacating essence. 

No. Not again. 

He numbed himself forcibly - carrying out his duties with droid-like, automatic motions. He barely spoke; only when necessary and rarely outside of duty. The new general was young, probably assumed it was the norm for clones. Each night, he would retreat to his bunk and welcome the clawing at his skull. Even if it wasn’t her, it reminded him he was alive. Recently, there had been a second presence. It never touched him but, he could also feel its silent willing of its more known counterparts actions. 

[Access denied]

Doom had once been a passionate man; he had radiated a strong, silent intensity in any setting - even when edging towards the periphery. He’d cherished all moments with his brothers, devoted his existence to the Republic, respected and admired his Generals - especially _her_. 

He only had one passion now, well an obsession really. His brother’s reminded him too much of himself and he was a failure. His Generals were both gone and the new one - he didn’t even know, he hadn’t even tried to read him. If you were to ask Doom to describe him right now, he probably couldn’t even form two adjectives. 

He would sit in the mess but, conversation wouldn’t flow and food and water alike would sit on his tongue and clog his throat as though it were ash. He would train alone, immaculately file his reports alone and then - then, he’d keep trying. 

He owes it to the Republic to find out what happened. He owes _her_ that, owes them both. He even owes the deranged trooper and the ARC. 

[Access denied]

 _Kark!_ Administration had been processing his clearance request for an eternity now, no apologies were made and he truthfully did not believe there was any sincerity in their attempts to retrieve it. Rex’s report could be his only chance of understanding this…no. Rex still had no idea and it was _his_ men that started it, his _vode._

He clenched his jaw, the gaunt hollows of his cheeks greying with frustration. Every time he tried a new numerical combination on that damned report he’d come up flat and the migraine would return with a new insistence. Sometimes, he’d tune it out and sleep after hours of agonising over what he didn’t understand - sometimes. 

_Another…he - he isn’t sure how long._

[Access denied]

[….]

[Granted]

His throat seized, his clavicle throbbed and jutted out even further from the sinew of his chest. Air suddenly found its way into long deflated lungs. 

[…I owe it to _Fives_ …a possibility…inhibitor chips…]

[…A purpose].

_A purpsoe? What purpose?! Wha-_

There was a prick, a scarlet flash of fire in that same spot above his temple and deep within him, as sweat dripped down the ridges of his spine. There was a pause, and suddenly invisible fingers clawed within his brain again and again; so much fiercer than ever before. They would plunge within the deepest recesses and pull until they were ripped away from a transient block, only to try again with renewed insistence. The second one joined in this time, two pairs of hands ripping at his skull and carving unseen welts into muscle and tissue - searching. 

He passed out. 

_…_

Grievous is dead. Dooku is dead. Actually, legitimately dead; not just defeated or fled, it could all be over soon. The war, _his purpose_. Well, it would be until another Jedi decides to fall astray and terrorise the galaxy. If history is to be believed that is - sooner or later some young Jedi will get bored or too powerful or emotional or whatever and turn. _His_ Generals had shown no such signs but, for every few Kenobis or Koons - there could be a Krell lurking in the shadows. Even Dooku had been a Jedi after all.

Doom remembers being told of the Jedi who’d commissioned him and his brothers, he’d been enthralled by the heroic tales and dreamed of the day he could serve Master Sifo Dyas - oddly enough a friend of Dooku.

Dooku, d - did Dooku know of their commission? Their purpose - _the purpose -_ the one Rex spoke of?! Of course all chances of knowing now were gone, Skywalker killed Dooku and Master Dyas disappeared long before the War began. Wait - no. A site had been found - the remains of a shuttle on the Oba Diah moon.

General Koon’s Report - Wolffe!

He was already dialling the Commander’s comm channel before he finished his train of thought, his sweat slicked fingertips squeaking sharply as they fumbled over his vambrace. It felt like an eternity before Wolffe’s silver eye met his own heavy, blood-shot ones through the grainy footage. The pack Commander’s left side was completely obscured by the pillow he still rested on and his affronted face thinly masked sleep behind a squinted glare. 

“Do you have any idea what _karking_ time it - _kriff._ Doom, you look awful.” Wolffe rasped, sitting up against his headboard as he took in Doom’s neglected appearance. 

“Wolffe, I need your report on the crash site.” Doom heaved, the demand firing out instantly, his chest so constricted he was surprised it didn’t groan with his frantic breathing.

“Oba Diah?” Wolffe asked with visible confusion, raising his hand to rub exhaustion from his eyes as he caught up. “There was nothing interesting - just some scorch marks, looked like pirates, nothing else.” Wolffe finalised, squinting again at Doom’s unsettling gaze, the intensity too much to focus on. 

“Please.” Doom croaked, he was trembling now and the sweat dripped freely from his brow.

“I - yeah okay.” Wolffe relented, his rough timbre softening slightly as Doom’s behaviour bordered on neurotic. “Clearance is mRoonK-1322. It’s transferring now. Do you need me to go through anything for you?” 

Doom exhaled once, running his hands through his matted hair, he didn’t notice Wolffe cringe as his fingers caught on a greased snagg. “No.” He licked his lips, tasting stale caf and salt, his eyes darting across his data pad as Wolffe’s file downloaded. “Got it. Thanks.” He spoke, already moving to disconnect the call. 

“Doom.” Wolffe started, stopping the other Commander from hanging up. He was completely awake now and likely wouldn’t sleep again tonight. He and Doom weren’t close, they didn’t really have much opportunity to interact but, Wolffe had seen some of the worst this war had to offer - and seeing Doom like this? It was like a step back in time; an uncomfortable reminder of both perseverance and rupture. “Look, if you need me to…”

“I know.” Doom fired. “I don’t.” 

Wolffe almost looked relieved for a second, _stars_ only know words of comfort weren’t the pack commanders expertise, though the pity in his normally blazing eyes lingered. If Doom had half a mind to notice, he’d be disgusted at the notion. Wolffe cleared his throat, pushing the gruff edge back into his voice before speaking again. “Also, don’t repeat that code to anyone - too many questions.” He’d looked every bit the pack Commander he was reputed to be; standoffish, blunt and coarse but, the fabrication was apparent now. 

Doom didn’t look up from his data pad. “Of course.” He pledged, finally ending the call. 

[Access Requested]

[Approval Pending]

[Accepted]

Wolffe was right, the crash site report showed nothing - _kark!_ He almost had something - Sifo Dyas had commissioned the clones, commissioned _him_ \- so he must - what?!

He was losing his train of thought - no think - Dooku and Dyas. How much could Dooku have known? 

_Think back to basic training - what did they always tell us?_

_Obey. Good Soldiers follow orders._

That’s what the defective one kept saying, _good soldiers follow orders,_ again and again until he was blue in the face and thrashing against his restraints. What was the order? What did that chip make him think he had to do? What made him kill _her?_

Flashes of blue spearing gold, an amber twinkle fizzling out in the dregs -

 _She’d_ known him. Sifo Dyas. 

_She’d_ spoken just once of the Master stripped of his council seat, too extreme apparently - just…just like Dooku.

Dooku must have known, the late Count was always one step ahead and likely had an ear against Dyas’ plans at all times if their friendship was what it was reported to have been. Yet, thanks to Skywalker, all chances of knowing are gone. 

No, what did the _longnecks_ say the chip was for? Inhibit emotions; passion, rage, anger - Doom knew he wasn’t inhibited, before and after his complimentary inoculation his ability to hate _and_ love was unhindered. 

The defective clone; the mad one, his chip failed - rotted by a separatist virus according to the sources and what did it make him do? Kill a jedi. Kill _her_. 

The ARC, what did he do? Attempt to assassinate the Chancellor. Trapped a Captain and Jedi. Raised a gun to Commander Fox.

Is - the chip supposed to protect authority figures? - No - no, that would imply there was always intent, and not one member of the 501st or even 212th had a bad word to say about either clone.

What if it was a control chip? It made them follow orders, the defective one though he was following orders - _good soldiers follow orders - kill the jedi -_

 _What if the_ eel-faced _, longnecks_ were right?!Their design hadn’t failed, no - they were flawless biologists - what if someone had a means to control them - to rewrite their _purpose_ \- someone who was there from the beginning of their creation - Dooku.

Dooku is dead now - then who? Who else could know?

 _There’s always two; a Master and an Apprentice._ She’d once told him, rubbing salve into the scrapes on his knuckles and her fingers lingering against the ticklish flesh of his inner wrist. It had still been uncharted territory then, the two of them not yet realising the true extent of their importance to the other. 

Ventress? Maul? Another Sith?

There was someone, someone out there with the means to control them - the clones - warp their _purpose_ against them. He needed the General - not _them_ \- the new one. 

Doom hadn’t even realised he’d already starting moving until his hands shook and fumbled against his door-lock. The door was still crawling open as he squeezed himself through the gap, squinting against the burning light of the hallway as he sprinted towards the bridge. His boots, still caked in dirt and decaying flora from their last campaign, tracked flakes of drying filth against the pristine floors as he ran; equally matched by the grime his finger tips printed in the _durasteel_ panel of each closed door encountered. 

When he reached bridge, several of the deck officers turned to him with shared expressions of fear, disgust and pity at a man unhinged. Doom ignored their startled expressions as he stalked towards the General, his hands behind his back as he faced the viewport. The stars shone dead and dim like embers fighting against the inevitable, the depths of space a sea of ebony so obscure that Doom could scarcely see his kama swaying in his reflection. 

His wrist comm beeped, helmet abandoned somewhere in his bunk. Ignore it. This can’t wait - 

[Emergency relay, incoming transmission direct from the Chancellor]

“Commander, the time has come…”

A hooded figure, mutilated jowls, twisted vocal cords - no, that can’t be him - 

“Execute Order 66.”

The echoing click of a safety switch.

“Yes, Lord Sidious.”

The General’s head turned, a hairless brow raised. 

_Good soldiers follow orders._

_Good soldiers follow orders._

_Good soldiers follow orders._

_4 ABY_

There’s an ocean, he doesn’t remember how he got here - or where here even is. Icebergs float and bob with the ripple of glittering waves, so much more gentle than the wind that scratches his cheeks raw and numbs the tips of his ears. He wills his eyes open as he tries to focus - there’s a figure in the distance, a tan hood and cloak, billowing in the wind - there’s a flash of viridian. Scarlet flutters and a second figure joins the first. Their hands are clasped. 

I hope it wasn’t too difficult to read - Doom is suffering from severe sleep depravation, loneliness, anger and survivors guilt so his thoughts are very scattered. A lot of thing about the biochip conspiracy are wrong too, I couldn’t expect him to figure out all the answers. 

He hurries forwards, his bare feet sinking up to the calf in the feathery crystals below him - there’s no chill and the wind aides him now, propelling his motions. His hands reach out, and the first figure mirrors him - they close in and all he can see is light. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I did Doom justice, in my own personal headcanon he actually removes his chip but I might save that theory for a full sized fic one day - or a collection of shorts. 
> 
> Thanks for reading this far <3
> 
> P.S. Did anyone notice the significance of Wolffe’s clearance code?


End file.
